


Third Law

by Tashilover



Category: Avatar the Last air Bender, Sherlock - Fandom, The Legend of Korra - Fandom
Genre: Avatar!Sherlock - Freeform, Character Death, Crossover, Mild Gore, Multi-verse, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3691353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction.</p><p> </p><p>An Avatar/Sherlock fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The museum described in the fic has a different structural layout than the actual Natural History Museum in London.
> 
> Also, the violence described in the tags will not show up until the next chapter.

About three years ago, some idiot had the bright idea of putting on a Superman costume, went out into the streets at night and tried to fight crime. He ended up getting both of his legs broken and the last Lestrade heard, 'Superman' was still reliant on his crutches to this day.

There were other such vigilantes who were not so obvious. There was 'Black Sarah,' an anonymous tipster who called in every other month to report the current activities of the drug dealers in her neighborhood. There was Sam, who caught seven child abusers in the past month by pretending to be a kid online and luring those bastards in.

Then there was Sherlock, who was the closest person to a superhero in Lestrade's personal opinion. That man once took down an entire weapons ring in two hours just by looking through old credit card receipts. He didn't do it for glory or money, he did it because he was _bored_ that day.

Though no matter how inhuman Sherlock appeared, he was no superhero and Lestrade did his best to keep Sherlock from acting like one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"It looks like a battle went on here," Sally breathed, taking in the scene before her. She walked very slowly into the warehouse, stepping lightly as if it were a mine field. "What the bloody hell happened...?"

Lestrade wished he could give her an answer, but he was just as befuddled as she was. He walked deeper in, his eyes taking in the whole scene, unsure what to make of it.

There were scorch marks everywhere. On the floor, on the ceiling, across the walls in giant, black waves. Some of the wooden crates were singed as if it caught on fire then put out just as quickly.

There were also an unusual amount of puddles everywhere. It appeared the emergency firehose had burst, spilling its contents all over the floor, but the water collection was so scattered, so far away from the source. No matter how long Lestrade studied the position of the puddles, there was no way this amount of water got to this corner unless someone physically brought a tub and dumped it there.

The weirdest by far was the state of the _ground_. There was no way the ground should look like this unless an earthquake struck England sometime last night. Fissure cracks were scattered all around them. Large slabs of rock were raise out of the ground, almost in perfect rectangle shapes. Chunks of fist-sized rocks were scattered everywhere, some made out of dirt, others from concrete.

"Sir," Sally called from the far part of the warehouse. "Over here."

Lestrade followed her voice. He was afraid he was going to come upon a slew of dead bodies, a giant pool of blood or perhaps a mountain of gore, but their little vigilante has never killed any of the people he has gone after. He preferred more unusual ways of catching bad men.

"Holy crap," Lestrade gasped lightly when he walked up next to Sally. "We're going to need..." he paused, unsure what they needed. "Hair dryers?"

In front of them were twelve men, all wanted for distribution of illegal drugs. Someone had incased them all in a _block of ice,_ only leaving their heads exposed.

"G-g-g-get us out of h-h-h-here!" One man cried, shivering madly.

"Sir," Sally turned to Lestrade. Her mouth was gaped opened. "Who could do something like this?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Look, it was like something out of a goddamn Batman cartoon! Alright? We were there, and suddenly, the lights went out. As first we thought it was the fuse, but then we were hit! It was like a goddamn tornado had come out of nowhere, throwing everyone around like rag dolls! We didn't know what it was, but Barry had turned on his torch and caught sight of it-"

"It? What's it?"

"It! It! I don't know, I didn't see the wanker! All I know Barry tried to shoot at it and I watched with my own eyes- his gun flying out of his hands like it was on a string! There was a ... burst of flame, I think? And Barry was suddenly on the ground, groaning. The ground was moving, shaking, things were flying about- have you seen the film, Poltergeist? It was like that! Shit flying, things being tossed. It was crazy and then the next thing I knew... I'm in a giant block of ice. How the fuck is that even possible?"

Lestrade stepped forward and turned off the video. "Every single one has the same description. As they were packing the drugs, the lights go out and some strange, unseen entity hits them with fire balls, water balloons, wind machines and rocks."

"Batman?" John immediately suggested with a hint of grin on his lips.

"That was my first thought, but these guys were armed to the teeth. They said their guns were ripped out of their hands as if a magnet was hovering right above them. We found the guns in another corner, twisted and mangled beyond repair. Now, I can accept maybe a group of vigilantes taking these guys on, but how does the block of ice factor into this? _How?"_

Everyone turned their heads towards Sherlock.

He had his hands pressed together, his fingertips touching against his lips. He stared unblinking at the frozen screen, contemplating.

He shrugged. "I have no bloody clue."

"Good lord," Sally said mockingly. "Someone call the press, Sherlock Holmes has no idea."

"How the ice block was formed? No clue. The person behind it, I've got several ideas."

"Person?" Lestrade repeated. "You think it's only one man?"

"Whoever he is, he is smart, fast, and organized. If you have too many people on your team, there are more chances of screwing up: someone might trip and fall, kick a can loudly, so on and so forth. He creates disorientation by turning off the lights, using darkness and fear to confuse people."

"Good lord," said Lestrade. "It IS Batman!"

Sherlock suddenly snapped, "Who the hell is Batman and why do you keep talking about him?"

"You don't know who Batman is?" This was said by everyone in the room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Is he the same guy?" John asked once they were out of police hearing distance. "The mystery man?"

Over the last two months Sherlock had been following on the heels of an unknown vigilante. The rumours had drifted through from Sherlock's homeless network speaking of a shadowy man taking down criminals with such ease, it was almost like magic. People have described sudden gusts of air sweeping them off their feet, of unseen holes tripping them. They talked about small strips of metal flying through the air, binding their arms and legs. The few who have caught a glimpse of this man have all described him with similar details: He's tall, has his face covered, and was wearing what looked like a red and orange outfit.

"I believe so," said Sherlock. "This is the first time he's taken on such a large group before. He's moving up, getting bold."

"Do you have any idea how he is making the elements... be? I feel like we are dealing an X-Men kind of thing."

"Oh god, what the hell are you even talking about-"

"Comic books, Sherlock. Batman, X-Men, Superman-"

"I know who Superman is."

"You know Superman but not Batman? My point is, are you sure this someone you want to take on? He may be fighting crime but he is doing it effortlessly."

"You're making it sound like I am planning to face him head-on. I'm not. I will find him, I will find out how he is doing what he is doing, then... I'll let Lestrade take over."

John made a face. "Yeah, I don't believe you."

Sherlock grinned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Eureka!"

John giggled from his chair. "You actually say eureka?"

"I have found out the next place our mystery vigilante man is going to hit next!" Sherlock said excitedly. He motioned John to come closer to the wall where photos of locations, newspaper articles, and incident reports were pinned. Various coloured strings connected to them all and no matter how long John stared at it, he was unable to understand any of it.

Sherlock slapped his finger to one photo: the natural history museum. "Here! He'll be here next!"

"Really?" John questioned. "Doesn't seem like his place of business."

"I've been noticing patterns in the type of criminals he takes down. Drug dealers, weapon dealers- all of them are small branches of a bigger gang. Now, because of his hit on the warehouse last week, he has seriously weakened the flow of cash to this dealer's organization. So what would you do if you found out your purse what empty?"

John shrugged. "Get more money."

"Exactly! Here, at the museum, they just brought in a new exhibit: Monarch jewelry from across Europe. Crowns, rings, pins- every single piece is worth more than three hundred thousand pounds."

"Huh," John said, re-examining the wall. "So by following the trail of crime, you can follow our mystery man. Amazing."

Sherlock beamed with pride.

"Are you going to tell Lestrade about this?"

"Nope," Sherlock said. His smile got wider. "This will be our only time to catch _Batman_ off guard, to see how he operates. I predict the theft will take place on Sunday, that's when that stupid rugby game is going to be on and security will be lax. That'll give us three days to prepare."

"I'm going to have to miss the game?" John groaned lightly. "Alright. What do we need to do?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John has only been to the natural history museum only a handful of times. Mostly to show visiting relatives some of London's sites that weren't over run with tourists. If he had to go to the Tower of London one more time, he was going to scream.

In truth, it was kind of cool hiding in the museum after it closed. It reminded John when he was a kid and the school offered sleepovers at the local museums. Unfortunately unlike those trips, John wasn't allowed to wander the exhibits. He had to wait with Sherlock, in the dark, waiting for the thieves and Batman to show.

"Should've brought coffee..." John groaned. He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch again. "The game's been over for three hours now. Are you sure they're going to break in tonight?"

"Positive," Sherlock said, peering through his binoculars at the bottom floor. They hid on the third floor, right next to the exotic insects section. "Though... I probably should have taken into account that the thieves would have wanted to see the game too..."

At John's annoyed face, Sherlock merely issued a weak, "Oops."

Around two in the morning, just as John was nodding off, Sherlock suddenly shook him. "John! John!" He whispered feverishly. "Do you hear that?"

John forced himself awake, rubbing his eyes. "Hear what?"

"Shhh! That! I think they're breaking in!"

John strained his ears. After a few seconds, he did indeed hear the dull sounds of doors being opened, of footsteps lightly stepping upon the stone floor. He stood up and and glanced over the railing. He watched as a group of eight men strode in with torches and duffel bags. They went straight to the jewelry exhibit.

"Alright," Sherlock hissed in glee. He pulled out a camcorder and turned it on to night mode. "Batman should not be far behind. He'll either come through the back doors over there or incapacitate the man guarding the door they've just broke through."

They waited in anticipation. It was a little annoying to be standing there, in the dark, while the bad guys were ransacking the place. Even from this high up, John could hear the sounds of glass being broken and things being moved.

"C'mon..." Sherlock urged. "Where the fuck are you...?"

John didn't know why but something made him look up.

The museum was a circular structure and the ceiling had a glass dome. The glass was clear and clean, allowing the light of the moon to illuminate the exhibits below. Up on that dome, John saw someone move.

"Sherlock..." John said, smacking his arm against Sherlock's back. "I found Batman..."

"Wha-?"

He looked up just in time to see Batman lift up a glass panel. The rumours were right: Batman was wearing an orange and red outfit while a red scarf covered his face. "I'm zooming in," Sherlock whispered, the camcorder held up high. "I don't see any spelunking or climbing equipment, how is he-?"

Batman suddenly jumped. From the top of the glass dome to the floor was easily an eighty foot drop. Not even Sherlock could cover his small gasp of surprise as Batman fell past them. "NO-!"

Batman didn't splatter on the ground in an explosion of guts or blood. His legs did not snap, he did not crumple upon the floor. There was a noise like a gust of wind passing through a tunnel, and suddenly Batman was on the floor, crouching, but unharmed.

"How did he-?"

Batman stood and ran to the exhibit, his long red scarf fluttering behind him.

"John, c'mon!"

"What?" Sherlock was making a mad dash to the stairs. "Sherlock, where are you going?"

"We're going to miss Batman! C'mon!"

So much for observing. John followed swiftly behind Sherlock, and it looked like any thoughts about being quiet went out the window. Neither of them bothered to muffle their steps as they ran down the large, flat marble to get to the bottom floor. John could hear the sounds of battle happening from the jewelry exhibit. Men were yelling, things were being tossed about. The moment their feet hit the lobby floor, the sounds all but ceased.

"Stop, stop, stop," Sherlock hissed, throwing an arm out to John.

"We're right out in the open!" John reminded him. They were right underneath the glass dome, in direct moonlight.

"I know! I know!"

Oh god, he sounded so excited. He kept the camcorder up, breathing harshly from their mad dash down the stairs.

A second later, Batman strode out of the exhibit.

At first he didn't see them. He was too busy looking back at the men he'd just subdued, and adjusting the scarf around his face. Now that they were only a few feet away, John got a much better look at him.

He was dressed like a Shaolin monk. The orange was so bright, it almost hurt John's eyes to look at it. So much for Batman being a secret of the night. He had bandages around his hands, like boxing tape, except the binding continued all the way up to his forearms. Half of his black hair also had been shaved off, while the other half draped to his right, aimlessly. He was tall, as tall as Sherlock, and though he appeared to look like a cartoon character, he was immensely intimidating.

He stopped when he finally spotted them.

He turned to them, his eyes wide in surprise. There was a short scar across his left face, running from his forehead, across his eyebrow, passing his eye completely and down to his cheek.

"Holy crap," John breathed in realization. "You're just a kid."

Sherlock lowered the camcorder. "John-"

Batman suddenly shot out his hand, his palm facing out, and a giant gust of wind struck them, knocking them both off their feet. The wind continued, pushing them back across the floor like they were paper, only stopping when they struck the wall forty feet behind them.

"Oh god..." John groaned, trying to get up. "What just happened?"

Sherlock too was struggling to get to his feet, though a lot more desperate to. "John, get up," he gritted through his teeth. "Get up! He's getting away!"

Batman was running for the stairs. Sherlock was up first and he took off in a sprint, stumbling at first, found his footing and kept on going. John got to his feet, groaned again from the pain, pushed it away and took off after Sherlock.

Batman was _fast_. He already had a head start on them and he ran up the steps like it was nothing. Through sheer determination and his already long legs, Sherlock was slowly catching up. Batman was probably tired from his fight or he was confused by the museum structure. There was a moment where his head kept turning, searching out for the next set of stairs, and was forced to run the complete circle of the museum circular structure to get to it.

"Stop!" Sherlock screamed at him from behind. "Stop, damn you!"

Suddenly Batman twisted around, bringing his arm up-

"John!" Sherlock yelled, grabbing John and pulling him out of the way. Another gust of wind shot out of Batman's hand, but this time missing them entirely. John felt his hair and coat kick up as the wind strewn past them loudly. The pause was just enough for Batman to disappear up another flight of steps.

"How is he doing that?" John saw no wind machine, no tubing of any kind. Unless the darkness was playing mind tricks, it was like Shaolin-Batman was magic.

"He's headed for the roof," Sherlock gasped.

Two minutes later they burst through the roof door, gulping down air so fast they were making their heads spin. John didn't think he was going to run up four flights of stairs tonight. His legs were like jelly, and the moment he stepped out into the cold air, he collapsed, exhausted. Sherlock stumbled out, turning and twisting desperately around to find Batman, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Dammit!" He yelled into the night. "We fucking had him! He was right in our grasp and we lost him!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over the next two days Sherlock barely spoke to John. He reviewed the recording over and over again, scrutinizing every frame, every movement. He enhanced the video so much, John once saw him stare at nothing but a green squiggle.

At least now they had a somewhat comprehensive physical description of Shaolin-Batman. Young white man, probably in his early twenties. Half of his head was shaven. He had black, wavy hair. He had a scar across his left eye.

Distinguishable enough, but in a city of seven million people, they needed more than that.

On the third day Sherlock was sporting deep black bags under his eyes. John wondered if he got any sleep. "Of course he hasn't," he then mumbled to himself. "Sherlock, we can't track him through activity criminal anymore?"

Sherlock gave him a 'are you that fucking stupid?' look. "No," he said. His voice was hoarse. "He now knows we're expecting him. The criminals are now expecting him. So both parties will back off and rethink their strategies. It may be a full month until we see him again."

"Then why don't we just wait a month?"

"Cause I don't _want to_ wait a month!" Sherlock yelled, banging his fists on the table.

"Okay, nap time."

"Noooooooooooooooooo..."

Sherlock tried to slap him off, and it was possibly the most pathetic thing John has ever seen. He dragged Sherlock from his chair to the sofa, forcing him to lay down. "Now you sleep for at least six hours, alright?"

"Humph..." Sherlock muttered, shifting himself. "I'll only take a ten minutes nap. I want to get back to work."

"Yeah, yeah..."

He ended up sleeping for seventeen hours. When he woke again, he was so groggy, he could barely steer himself. John helped him to the shower, only checking up on him occasionally to make sure he hadn't fallen and died. When he came out fresh and clean, he was still so very exhausted, so John got him to bed. The moment Sherlock's damp hair touched the pillow, he was out again.

"Like a child..." John murmured, closing the door to Sherlock's room quietly. He suddenly had a thought.

Grabbing his coat, he texted Mrs. Hudson that he was going out and if she could watch Sherlock while he was gone. She replied quickly, telling him _of course she would._ Assured, John left the flat quickly, hailing a taxi as soon as he got on the street.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe Sherlock had already thought of this and had not told John of this theory. Shaolin-Batman was a young man. Just a kid, judging from the baby face they saw that night. Kids, even ones who were in their twenties, were treated differently than adults.

Like the real Batman, Shaolin-Batman was probably parentless. Maybe even homeless. With his head half-shaven and a scar across the eye, he probably wasn't that sociable either. And where do homeless, scarred, orphans hang out?

Taking a page out of Sherlock's book, John gathered specs of information from different people on the street. After paying off nearly a dozen people, they soon pointed him to an abandoned office building.

John cautiously entered the building, not sure what he'll find. This could be all a giant goose chase and he may have just wasted eighty pounds for nothing. Besides trash and graffiti, there were no other signs of human life. It was cold, John thought. It was probably better to find heat somewhere else.

Just as he was about to call it a day, he found something.

Rather, he smelled something: incense.

Not a luxury a homeless person would spend their money on. John ventured further in, thinking he was most likely going to stumble upon someone smoking pot.

He didn't. He found Shaolin-Batman.

It was a damn miracle John didn't squeal out his surprise. He jerked back, hiding himself, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Quickly, he put his phone on silent and sent out a text to Sherlock.

I FOUND BATMAN. HERE IS THE ADDRESS.

John put his phone away. As quietly as he could, he peered around the corner to see.

Batman had his back to John. He was seated on the floor, on an old weathered mat, legs crossed and arms presumably rested in front of him. To his right John noticed a makeshift bed, and up on the paint-scratched wall, Batman had his own set of photos with pins and strings attached to it.

Some Bat-cave, John though musingly.

Batman was still wearing his Shaolin costume, though the red scarf was sitting on top of the bed. It looked like he was meditating. In front of him, John barely caught sight of incense burning in its cup.

John wondered if he should confront him. What happens to people who catches Batman off-guard? Most likely not good things. Still, this young man has made a considerable effort to not excessively harm the criminals he's caught. He also didn't harm Sherlock or John that night in the museum.

Oh, what the hell. Nothing gained, nothing lost.

John stepped into the room, padding his feet lightly. It looked like he didn't need to, Batman was so deep into... whatever he was doing, he barely moved.

"Hi, there," John said, his voice loud in the silence of it all.

Batman flinched violently, got to his feet, and twirled around so fast, wind picked up around him, sending dust and small bits of debris flying. John had his arm raised to protect his face. When he lowered it, he gasped.

"Oh my god," John said, his jaw dropping.

Standing before him was no other than Sherlock Holmes, age nineteen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, violence in the next chapter! I think. I'll stop making promises.

The very first thing to pop into John's head was, 'Goddamn it, those motherfuckers, did they have another brother and didn't tell me? I swear, I am going to fuck someone up.'

His second thoughts were a bit more calm.

The kid was lean for his age, his body built like a dancer's. Sherlock was built too, but he was bulkier, like a boxer, thick enough to withstand blows. This kid also had dark, tanned skin while Sherlock had a natural pale complexion from being inside too much too often.

John stepped forward quietly, trying to process how this was physically possible, because that was Sherlock right there. That was no getting around that. "I am not going to hurt you," John said gently.

"I know you won't," the kid snapped at him. Wow, what kind of _accent_ was that? It certainly wasn't British but it didn't sound exactly like an American accent either. "Even if you wanted to, there's no hope for you to take me on."

John paused. He dropped all pretenses of caution. "Okay," he said. "So who are you? A clone?"

Batman frowned. "A... what?"

"Did Mycroft create you in a lab?"

"You can _do_ that here?"

He sounded both horrified and morbidly fascinated. That was Sherlock alright. "I was kidding," John said, wanting to get back on track. "What's your name?"

He took a step forward. He stopped when Sherlock took a step back.

"Sherlock," the boy said, wary. "Holmes."

So much for the hope John was wrong. In the presence of the Holmes, he was always wrong. He might as well get used to it. "I'm John."

"I know," said boy-Sherlock.

There was an awkward pause. So many questions flittered through John's mind, each one as important as the next. He struggled to to grab one, any one. The first thing to pop out of his mouth was, "Are you hungry?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nando's was a little pricier than John was prepared to spend today, but he wanted to go to a restaurant out of Sherlock's influence. As far as he knew, Sherlock didn't save the owner of this place. With Mycroft on a diet, it was highly unlikely he would scroll into this place for its delicious chicken.

The boy stood out like a lighthouse. With his half-shaved head, his deep facial scar and the clothes he wore had everyone passing by do a double-take. He gave them no heed. He was too busy playing around with John's phone.

"I stole so many of these, but all of them were password protected," he said eagerly as he scrolled through the apps. "The money system here is so confusing and annoying. Then again, I've never really had a need for money..."

"According to police reports, you also stole the purses of the men you stopped."

"Only their money, nothing else. I'm not interested in their identification cards or personal pictures."

This was different from John's Sherlock. His Sherlock would coveted those ID cards, using them to his advantage or even lording them as trophies. It was a bit serial killer-ish, his small collection of trophies. "So," John began. "You... can control the elements."

The kid looked up from the phone, then glanced back down. "You don't sound so surprised."

"Oh, I'm very surprised. Amazingly so, but I have a choice: either I could accept it and try to move past it, or deny it at every step and drive myself to insanity. I choose the first path. So... what is this? Magic, I'm guessing."

Sherlock huffed. "Not magic. The ancient Lion-Turtles gave human beings the ability to bend the elements, however limited only one element per person, and not every person can bend. But ten thousand years ago my past-self fused with the incredibly powerful light spirit Ravva, which gave me the ability to bend all four elements and the energy of the universe. Since then, every generation I am reborn as the Avatar, master of all the elements."

Sherlock took a sip of his ice water. "Simple, really."

"Right..." John said. "Right... right..."

"You're repeating yourself."

"I am trying not to panic," John said. "It's, um, a lot of information to take in. I... so... I take it then you're are from a different universe?"

"I suppose."

"Dr. Who logic, got it. Oh look, our food is here."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock more engrossed in the phone than anything else. John kept wondering if his Sherlock had awoken yet and saw the message. Maybe he was still asleep.

"Are you surprised to see yourself here?" John asked. "Your... non-elemental self?"

"A little. I wasn't sure what I was expecting when I came here. I thought the portal I went through would take me to the spirit world, not-"

"Whoa, whoa, what? Portal?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, tired of explaining all of this. "A portal of spiritual energy that bends the fabric of time and space, allowing anyone to pass through into another level of earth-"

"So it's a teleporter?"

"What the fuck is a teleporter?"

It was too early in the afternoon for such mind-fuckery. John was a medical officer, not a astrophysicist. He still expected cameras to pop out of nowhere, telling him everything he's experienced in the past few hours had been nothing but an elaborate prank.

He needed to ground himself. "How did you get that cut?"

Now that John got a better look at it, the long cut down Sherlock's face was still weeks away from scarring. If the cut was struck hard enough, it could start bleeding again. It was deep, and still quite pink. Such a wound should've got stitches, not left open like that.

Sherlock's fingers stopped scrolling on the phone.

The pause was long enough for John to pick up on it, even as Sherlock perfectly lied and said, "I fell. It'll heal, don't worry."

"It's a very deep cut," John said. "If not treated properly, it could scar."

Sherlock slammed his fist down on the table hard enough to rattle the cups. "I said it's fine!"

Yup, that tantrum was all Sherlock. John was experienced enough with those not to feel offended or put off by them. Especially not by some teenage punk. John leaned in, and Sherlock leaned back, uncomfortably. "Who gave you that cut?"

"I don't know," said Sherlock, almost whispering. "I never got her name before I struck her down."

"You killed her?"

"I had to, she was-" Sherlock bit his lip, refusing to continue. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Alright..." Clearly something bad happened before coming here. This boy wasn't as good as hiding his feelings as his older counterpart. If Sherlock wanted something to stay hidden, it stayed hid.

John decided to change the subject. He gave a grin and asked, "What about me? Is there another me running around-"

"I said, I don't want to talk about it!"

Those words spoke volumes.

Though this boy was taller than John, lean with muscle and had the powers of a god, he was still just that: a boy. He looked frustrated with being unable to control his emotions. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as tears gathered in his eyes.

As a veteran, John has been exposed to so much pain. Physical pain certainly, but so much emotional, psychological and spiritual pain. This boy here has seen and experienced much. Like the still-healing cut on his face, his trauma was recent and will stay with him for the rest of his life.

"I won't judge," John said softly. "You know I won't. I'll just listen."

The boy looked up at him, begging, but unsure what for. He then nodded and brought up his arm. It was still covered in wrappings. Slowly, he unwounded them.

John didn't know why he was doing this but kept quiet as Sherlock pulled the long, thin strip away. The more skin he revealed, the faster he went, taking the strip off in a maddening way. His hand twisted around wildly around, gathering the material, until finally last portion was pulled away from the knuckles.

The whole time Sherlock kept his hand palm facing outward towards John. When he was done, he turned his palm inward.

On the back of Sherlock's hand, trailing up his forearm was an intricate blue arrow tattoo. It reminded John of henna; the overall design of the tattoo was arrow-shaped, the tip ending right at Sherlock's middle knuckle, but the lines within the confines swirled and twisted beautifully.

"This tattoo..." Sherlock began. "Is unfinished. And it will stay that way until I find the man who killed everyone I knew."

Oh god. John licked his lips, and as his question left his lips, he already knew the answer. "Who killed them?"

Sherlock's face darkened. "He said his name is Moriarty.""


End file.
